So, some people like to hate on foods being described as “crack” when they are, in fact, not crack.
But here’s the thing. Every year, when Satsumas show up in the grocery store, I call them crack oranges.
I’ve been doing it forever, and stopping now would mean learning how to say “satsuma”. Which does not roll off the tongue the way “crack orange” does.
I went through a phase in college where I exclusively ate crack oranges and the peanut butter flavored South Beach bars.
(I had a whole theory there on why this was a healthy option. Because the South Beach bars had like, protein and vitamins and whatnot. And the crack oranges meant I wasn’t getting scurvy. I got told this wasn’t a good choice?)
Awesomely, this morning when my husband woke up to me telling him about how crack oranges were in at Fred Meyer and we had to go, he, in his half-awake stupor told me “let’s go get you baby oranges”
I tend to call things babies, so I could see how, half awake, he’d get mixed up. But you can’t call crack oranges by the wrong name.
I tried to correct him “they aren’t babies they’re CRACK. Crack oranges”
Undeterred, he responded with “crack babies!”
Delicious, delicious crack babies.
(yes, I don’t post in a month and then write entirely about oranges. Let’s not judge, ok?)
(also, wordpress suggested “prenatal cocaine exposure” as a tag for this post. Win)